


Value

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Dom/sub, Established Relationship, M/M, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-13
Updated: 2018-10-13
Packaged: 2019-08-01 15:58:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16287527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: It’s cold and Melkor’s prickly.





	Value

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Silmarillion or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Every single person Melkor works with is an _idiot_ , and he’d fire every single one of them if he thought he could swiftly find replacements that weren’t also completely worthless. Unfortunately, most people are worthless. It’s a wonder his company has reached the five billion gross profit benchmark that it has. He mostly chalks that up to his competitors being equally as useless.

To make matters worse, it’s getting _cold_ , and the well-tailored jacket of his expensive suit does very little to combat that. By the time that Melkor’s stepping through the door of his apartment, he’s bristling with annoyance. The air inside is only slightly warmer than outside. And it smells like nothing. Which has him growling loudly as he slips out of his shoes, “I can’t smell any dinner!”

Down to too-thin socks, Melkor rounds the corner into the living room. Mairon’s sitting right in the middle of it, next to the unlit fireplace, giant knitting needles and a large black ball of yarn in his lap. It takes Melkor a second to even realize that they _are_ knitting needles, because he’s not sure he’s ever seen a pair in person. Without glancing up from his work, Mairon answers, “I’m busy.”

Melkor’s lip curls. He spends an extra few seconds taking the sight in, because it’s just so bizarrely out of character. Then he snarls back, “I’d thought I was dating a talented metalworker, not someone’s lame, burnt-out grandmother.”

Mairon’s pale cheeks instantly flush a fiery red to match his hair. He finally looks up to Melkor to splutter, “I’m making a sweater for _you_ , asshole.”

Melkor’s almost physically taken aback. He opens his mouth to snap his answer, ready to seethe—he doesn’t allow his subs to talk back to him like that, even if they do have an ass as great as Mairon’s. But then, he’s never had a sub like Mairon before.

And he’s still cold. 

He sort of wants a sweater.

He mutters, low and dangerous, “You’re dead when you finish.”

He can see the grin tug at Mairon’s lips, though Mairon tries to hide it. As snarky as he can be to others, he isn’t usually that way to Melkor. He _respects_ Melkor. But Melkor also suspects that he _likes_ being punished, which sort of defeats the entire purpose.

Feeling weirdly off his game over the whole problem, Melkor turns on his heel and heads for the kitchen. He needs food in his stomach. He’s one foot out of the living room when Mairon calls after him, “There’s pasta in a pot on the stove and salad on the counter.”

There is indeed. And it looks delicious. The sweater will probably be amazing.

Melkor wolfs the food down and retreats to a pile of blankets in the bedroom, while he waits for Mairon to come report for punishment. He spends the meantime thinking about how everyone beyond his apartment is worthless, while those inside are gold.


End file.
